Desolate - The Complete Trilogy

by Robert Brumm

  Desolate – The Complete Trilogy

  Robert Brumm Jr.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  www.robertbrumm.com

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  This book is intended to be read by adults and may be unsuitable for children under 17. Contains indecent language and descriptions of graphic violence.

  Copyright 2013

  Robert Brumm

  DeadPixel Publications

  Desolate – The Complete Trilogy contains all three books of the Desolate series:

  Desolate: Original Publication Date August 4, 2011

  Desolate 2 – Exposure: Original Publication Date July 7, 2012

  Desolate 3 – Redemption: Original Publication Date March 9, 2013

  You may click on the links above to skip to the part you wish to read.

  Part One - Desolate

  1

  If one were to fly a plane over the South Shetland Islands, just off the northwest side of the Antarctic Peninsula, one might notice a small horseshoe shaped island nestled in between the larger islands in the chain. Thousands of years ago, a massive volcanic eruption collapsed the volcano’s summit. The caldera was flooded and created a bay within the remaining land.

  This island was once home to a thriving community of seal hunters in the 1820s. By the early 1900s, seals were nearly hunted to extinction, so the hunters turned to whaling. In 1910, a whaling station was constructed near the protected waters of the bay where whale carcasses were boiled down to extract the valuable oil within. The rich waters surrounding the island rewarded the workers well, and soon a small town grew between the black sand beach and glaciers looming in the hills above.

  As isolated as the island was, it could not hide from the depression of the 1930s. The price of whale oil plummeted and the workers struggled to turn a profit. Most of the residents left the island in search of work back in the civilized world. A stubborn minority stayed behind and patiently waited for better times while hunting Chinstrap penguins to keep from starving over the long winter months.

  In 1941, the volcano erupted again. It destroyed most of the small whaling town and killed over half of the remaining residents. The island was finally abandoned once and for all. The rusty remains of the oil tanks along the shore and a handful of crumbling foundations is all that is left today.

  If one were to continue to circle the island in the plane, one would notice the permanent glaciers that cover over half the island. The other half is covered in black volcanic sand and rock, penguin and kelp gull feces, and scraggly moss and lichen. It is an ugly and inhospitable land. One would quickly lose interest and change the course of the plane to a more appealing location.

  Howard Bell saw none of these things because he arrived to the island by boat. He stood on the deck waiting to disembark with a few dozen men. It was cold. He was no stranger to cold being from Wisconsin, but he was wearing clothes barely suitable for an air conditioned office.

  “All right ladies! Fall in line and get on my ass! Anybody falls behind, anybody pulls any shit, and I will introduce you to Little Billy here!” The speaker was a large man dressed in a parka. He gripped and caressed a club that must have been Little Billy. Besides him, a few other men dressed in the same fashion stood by holding shotguns. The guns may have also had clever names but there were no introductions yet.

  The shivering men followed the well-dressed guards off the small ship which had been their home for the last several weeks. Like all the other convicts, Howard started the journey by slowly heading to Miami by bus. It stopped in various cities and towns, picking up more cons along the way. He was pulled off the bus, pushed on to a shabby looking ship, and was locked into one of the cells below deck.

  The ship headed south through the Caribbean toward South America. As the ship sailed closer to the equator, the cell became unbearably hot and humid. Howard shared his cell with five other men. They slept on dirty mats on the hard deck and squatted over a hole when they needed to relieve themselves.

  The ship made several stops along the way as it hugged the continent’s shore. In Sao Luis, Rio de Janeiro, and Montevideo, the convicts were allowed out of their cells to the upper deck. They helped haul supplies to and from the ship and were hosed down with salt water afterward to wash the sweat and grime from their bodies.

  After the ship left Uruguay and sailed further south, the temperature dropped considerably. For a while, it was downright comfortable, but it soon turned bitter cold. Howard sat on his mat shivering and wishing for the delicious warmth of the Caribbean. Finally, the ship reached the final destination and soon he discovered what real cold was like.

  The official name of the installation on the island was the International Experimental Rehabilitation Facility. Everybody that lived on the island simply referred to it as the farm.

  Nobody was quite sure how it came to be known as the farm, as there were no similarities to an actual farm whatsoever. It was just a handful of ratty buildings in the middle of nowhere. Isolation was the main crop of the farm and the inmates didn’t need to do much to keep the crop thriving.

  The facility was a collaboration between the United States and United Kingdom. The two countries acquired the island under the blessings of the Antarctic Treaty System to create an isolated prison colony where they could send the worst men society had to offer. All inmates had at least one life sentence without the possibility of parole. The farm not only provided extreme isolation from the rest of the world, but also acted as a deterrent for other would-be bad guys. Straighten up or freeze your ass off at the farm for the rest of your life. The long-term goal was a nearly self-sufficient outpost of exiles with low cost to the taxpayers. There was hope that eventually, with proper guidance and resources, the prisoners would develop a society on the island unlike traditional prisons. The inmates would govern themselves and find a way to survive with little help from the outside world. Ultimately, the government wanted to be able to drop off new convicts and wash their hands of them. Survival of the fittest. The new men would need to adapt quickly and find their place in the little island nation of criminals.

  Escape was not a concern. The island was under constant satellite surveillance and any suspicious sea or aircraft would be intercepted courtesy of the RAF. The Mount Pleasant air base on the Falkland Islands was just minutes away via fighter jet. Any man foolish enough to try the five mile swim to the nearest island wouldn’t get far in the icy water.

  The farm was just over ten years old when Howard and his peers arrived. Concerns in Washington and London were growing and it was becoming clear the experiment was not going as planned. The inmates seemed no closer to self-sufficiency than they were a decade ago.

  Howard trudged along with the others led by Little Billy and his
friend a quarter mile inland to the farm. The first thing he noticed was the pair of guard towers looming over both sides of the compound. Each held a guard and a powerful spot light mounted on a fifty caliber machine gun. The guns weren’t used to discourage escape since there was no place to escape to. They simply stacked the odds against the inmates in case of an uprising. Each gun had full coverage of the camp and could rain down lead up to 2000 yards away. The thin aluminum walls of the barracks offered no protection from the powerful rounds of the fifties.

  The inmates were led out of the cold and into a room in the main administration building. They were told to shut up. Line up. Eyes forward. A large man entered wearing a clean and wrinkle free uniform with three chevrons on the sleeve indicating his rank of sergeant. He stood for a moment eyeing the convicts for drama.

  When he finally spoke he did so with a powerful voice, each word slow and deliberate. “My name is Sergeant Vincent Cottrell and as you may have already guessed, I’m in command of the guards in this facility. I assume you all have names as well, but I don’t give a shit what they might be. You were sent to me because you’ve committed crimes against society. A society that you will never be a part of again. The farm is not a pleasant place to live for convicted felons. The United States of America and Great Britain gave me this job to see to it that it stays that way. And I take my job very seriously, I shit you not.”

  The con standing next to Howard found that last bit amusing and he let out a little snicker. Cottrell simply stopped talking, sighed, and looked at the ceiling. Within a second, two guards were on him, beating him with their clubs. He collapsed to the floor and screamed as they delivered blow after blow. They skillfully struck with just enough force not to break the skin or any bones. He would receive no permanent damage, just weeks of recovery from swollen lumps and painful bruises. The guards stopped at the same time and looked to their sergeant for guidance, who told them to get the piece of shit out of his sight. They uncurled the con from his fetal position and dragged him from the room.

  Cottrell continued. “I’d like to thank that young man for demonstrating a very valuable lesson. I will not take shit of any kind. My men will not take shit of any kind. Your welfare is not a great concern to me.” He paced the floor, stopping in front of Howard. “If I had my way, I’d use my sidearm to put a bullet into each of your heads and end your worthless lives right now. It sickens me to share the same planet with you. However, I also share this planet with bleeding heart lefty do-gooders that might consider that cruel and unusual punishment.” The guards took their cue and laughed at their sergeant’s joke. The inmates did not.

  “You will find no bleeding hearts here. If you do as you are told, and don’t attract my attention, we’ll all get along just fine. Attracting my attention means you’ve made the mistake of deciding to become a troublemaker.” He pointed to the door. “When that boy gets out of the infirmary, feel free to ask him if he regrets that decision. Do I make myself clear, convicts?”

  One of the guards stepped out in front of the inmates and screamed his best drill instructor scream. “When the sergeant asks the convicts a direct question the convicts respond by saying YES SIR!”

  The convicts muttered the required response out of unison.

  “The sergeant can’t hear you!”

  “YES SIR!”

  “All right then, gentlemen,” Cottrell said. “Welcome to the farm.”

  2

  After the pep talk from Sergeant Cottrell, the convicts endured the typical procedures of any prison welcoming ceremony. They stripped off their clothes and showered in cold water. They were poked and prodded by a doctor, their body cavities were searched, and their arms and asses were pumped full of inoculates. They were issued denim shirts, pants, a pair of leather work shoes, gloves, and a thin hooded parka.

  On the way out the door they each received a wool blanket and were told which barracks to go to. Howard and the other convicts he came with were split up and he found himself outside alone. The guard simply pointed to the building and told him to find an empty bunk.

  Howard slowly walked across the empty yard and glanced up at the closest tower. He could make out the shape of the guard on duty, no doubt watching him. He didn’t expect to suddenly be alone like this and his imagination and anxiety ran wild. What kind of scene would he be walking into?

  He felt so weak and scared. Not exactly a man built for prison life, Howard barely tilted the scales at a hundred and sixty pounds and was just shy of five foot eight. He was not physically gifted in any way, had never been a fight in his whole life, and hated confrontations.

  He had been in solitary lock-up in Miami for a few days before shipping out. On the way to the bus bound for the docks, a trustee pulled him aside. “Get ready white boy. Them big niggas at the farm gonna screw yo scrawny white ass real good.” At the time, he thought the trustee was just having fun with him but now he wondered. Was prison rape common or just something they liked to play up in movies? He’d never spent any time in general population before getting shipped out so he’d spent little time with other prisoners.

  Howard reached the door and stood there for a moment. If it wasn’t so damn cold he probably would have stalled for a little while longer. He took a deep breath and stepped through the door. The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was sweat and dirt, piss and bad breath, dirty clothes and dirty beds, all rolled up together in a brick wall of funk. But it was warm. Not kick off your shoes and read the paper warm, but at least it was slightly better than outside.

  For a few moments he couldn’t see anything after stepping out of the glaring sunshine. As his eyes adjusted, he made out rows of bunks and men among them. Some were lying down, others were sitting alone or in a group. A bunch of them were lounging around the single stove in the middle of the floor. Since there were no windows or electric lights, a few skylights made of translucent plastic let in what little light there was.

  He stood there and didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he felt dozens of eyes boring into him. Nobody spoke, they just stared indifferently. The only sound was the wind hitting the side of the building.

  Hey, dumbass. Don’t just stand there. Do something! Find an empty bunk like the guard said.

  Howard stepped forward on wobbly legs, desperately trying to look cool, tough, and relaxed. He realized he’d been clutching his blanket close to his chest like a teddy bear so he loosened his grip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Oh yeah, I’m a real bad ass. They’re going to kill me.

  At last, he found an empty bunk and sat down. The man across from him got up and darted over. “Wot the gypsy nell ya think yer doin’ China? That uncle ned ain’t yours ta be sittin’ on.”

  “Um, I..”

  “Wot’s the matter, dummy? Don’t ya understand the dolly dimple English?”

  Howard cleared his throat. “The guard outside said I should find an empty bunk.”

  Another man rose from his bed and came over. “Don’t mind him, mate.” He sat down and put his arm around Howard. “He’s forgotten the proper way to meet and greet the new gents. Say, that’s a nice blanket you’ve got there. Mind if I take a gander?”

  A large black man crossed the aisle and joined the party. “Man, I know you ain’t just said that. You know damn well I got first crack at the new fish this time ‘round.” He snatched Howard’s blanket off the bed. “You won’t be needing this, man. New fish don’t need no new blankets. You still all toasty warm from the boat ride down, ain’t that right?”

  Howard opened his mouth to object but only a pathetic gasp escaped his dry mouth.

  “That’s right, motherfucker. This here is my blanket.”

  The black man went back to his bunk leaving Howard sitting there with a stupid look on his face. The two British guys left him alone now that the prized blanket was gone.

  Howard’s eyes started to burn and water and he thought for a terrifying moment he might cry. Wouldn’t that be ju
st great? Everybody just saw him get his blanket stolen without any kind of resistance at all and now he was about to sob like a thirty-year-old baby. He was dead.

  Not knowing what else to do, he stretched out on the bunk and stared off into nothingness. The excitement of the new arrival passed and the men around him started back up their conversations, card games, and whatever else they did to pass the time.

  Howard turned his head and saw a guy a few beds down staring at him. He was sitting on the edge of his bunk with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together. He had long, greasy looking hair, a scruffy beard, and bright blue eyes.

  When Howard met his gaze he made no attempt to look away or pretend he wasn’t staring. Howard quickly turned over and thought of what the trustee told him about his scrawny white ass.

  A bell outside started ringing causing everyone to stand up and head for the door. Nobody said anything to Howard, so he got up and followed the others outside.

  Howard followed the trail of inmates across the yard and into the mess hall. It was a gloomy building pretty much the same as the barracks, except it was a little bigger and had picnic tables in lieu of bunks. Howard waited in line to receive an aluminum tray containing a hunk of fatty meat, a hard biscuit, some beans, and a cup of watered down and tepid coffee.

  He took his tray and looked around the room, feeling like a kid in high school. He surveyed the tables which were clearly divided into groups sticking to their own kind - blacks, Hispanics, white power skinhead types. He didn’t see the scared-first-day group. Somebody bumped into him from behind and he took a few steps, scanning the faces, trying to recognize one of the guys he’d arrived with. He finally found a table with only two men and sat down at the far end. They glanced at him and continued their conversation.